Liquid Skies
by plink
Summary: It's been over 36 hours since Liquid last got some sleep, and he's not happy. Especially when he's told he has to keep an eye on the president (Oh yes, Solidus) along with his teamates Ocelot, and the dope-smoking Crimson Dingo. One word: Help! *finished*
1. Intro thingie

LIQUID SKIES:  
  
A little explanation…  
  
Ok, what is this, apart from being a fic?  
  
It's actually an exercise in humour on my part. OK, this is just some random crap thanks to my brothers watching Air Force One. I was giggling all the way through, couldn't help myself. So I asked myself, WWLD (What would Liquid do?) and this was the result. Yeah. Twisted.  
  
To stop the confusion, this takes place before the mega-fic (and before Shadow Moses) that's sitting on my hard drive (well the notes anyway – the profiles of every character make a fic in itself. Too make things easier, I've given Liquid the full name of James (Everyone seems to agree on that one) Sasha Bartlett (If you've ever seen the Frighteners – yes. That's why ^-^).  
  
Quite often he is referred to as Sasha, simply because he got sick of the whole James/Jim thing with the other characters. There is also another reason for this that will be revealed in the fullness of time, provided Symbrio gets off his a$$ and starts giving me feedback on ANGEL.  
  
Whenever Liquid has 'placed' himself on my sketchpad (oh, there's a lot of him) he usually has blue green eyes. I couldn't make up my mind, which was better, so I figured a mixture of both. He's a little OOC, but then, he's not under stress. He's the same longhaired Brit we all know and love *swoon*  
  
Ocelot is Ocelot. Nothing more to be said.  
  
ANYWAY – KidHighwind118 – I am not copying you with the whole Metal Wolf/Crimson Dingo. Dingo was taken from a good friend from High School, Kane Dwyer, whose attitude to life was not to worry. Hope he's ok. He is Australian, but he's not totally into porn. (I keep seeing a guy from my drama class whenever I read your fics…it's freaky seeing Tas in a sneaking suit. I mean REALLY freaky (Hi Tas!) But then, this is the guy who's been on stage in a tutu. Maybe I HAVE seen worse.)  
  
So that's about it. Find Kosheen, pop it into your CD player/computer disk runner thing and go on. Whether I can keep this up and not have my butt kicked by work, family or lack of inspiration I don't know, but reviews are good. Remember that.  
  
Snake may have seriousness, but Liquid has the humour. Yay!  
  
Ugh. I KNOW someone is going to wave the plagiarism flag.  
  
~ plink aka the mad Liquid fanatic 


	2. Beaches and Bond

Beaches and Bond  
  
  
  
It was *hot*.  
  
Not that it mattered, mind you. On the golden sands…well, actually, lying on a large beach towel, James Sasha Bartlett, a.k.a Liquid Snake was having some time off. Enough with the terrorists. Enough with the damn hostage crisis shit. He sighed and relaxed a little further into the soft plush of the towel, and sighed, twitching the knob of the radio up another notch – Whenever he was in Australia, Triple J was the priority station. He always liked the Sneakerpimps, especially their new song, 'Sick'…reminded him of him.  
  
Ahh…a lonely secluded beach somewhere on the hotel resort Tangalooma, off the coast of Queensland. The little island was as pretty as a picture, and those dolphins were damn cool too. Quite little things, but there was only so much dolphin he could take. He was still looking for a dolphin cookbook amongst the scary paraphernalia the resort pumped out for the tourists. Ah! But he wasn't a tourist, he was…okay, he was, but never mind. His own apartment, exclusive use of this particular beach, and oh yes, whatever he wanted to do, within reason. (Damn, he couldn't sniper the annoying brats down in room 8). He'd dived the wrecks, watched the fish, and faced off with a shark that thought it might want a bit of Snake for a change. A tooth now hung around his neck, along with his dog tags.  
  
*This* was the life. He took a sip of his soda and grinned at the deep blue sky, wondering how the others were doing. Uh…what had they done again? Never mind.  
  
Distantly, Sasha heard voices, female. He opened a blue-green eye and stared.  
  
What the hell?  
  
He sat up and stared as a bunch of super models traipsed the way across the sand on their matchstick legs, in nothing more than a few bits of lycra with dental floss holding it all together. Some looked good, one or two looked a little angular – no, no, that was just the light.  
  
"Down soldier" He growled at his groin, feeling the familiar stirrings. "At ease now, on duty later. Maybe."  
  
This was a private beach damn it!  
  
He took of his sunglasses and blinked. "Hey…excuse me?"  
  
They continued to chat while the big boat now moored at the shore started to offload mountains of crap. Looked like they'd even bought the kitchen sink. What was going on?!  
  
Damn. This meant he had to blow his cover. Life wasn't fair. "Excuse me ladies?"  
  
*Still* they ignored him. Okay, no more playing fair. He stood up, dusted off his board shorts, and grabbed the camera Wolf had *demanded* he take, and actually use so she'd have more pictures for her scrapbook. "Excuse me girls, could I have a few pictures?"  
  
Now THAT caught their attention.  
  
"$500 bucks per snap – oh…hello…"  
  
A tanned guy with very good looks and long sun bleached brown hair tend to do that to women. Some men too. The accent was a bit of a draw card as well. Sasha grinned. "I won't bite…unless of course, you want me to…" Always had to play the gentleman…  
  
So that was why, a few minutes later, he was surrounded by more skin than a drummer, and in heaven.  
  
Now THIS was the life. Looked like he was going to have a bit of a workout later on, yes sir…He grinned stupidly as one of them started to undo his shorts, and another was playing with his hair. Hehe this was too good, hehe how many, five women? New record back at the barracks…hehe…  
  
"He-hey! Easy there…" He laughed pushing one who got a little too personal a little too early on.  
  
"Are you in the military?" Giggled one.  
  
"Hehe we love men from the military…you're so cute…"  
  
"All yours if you want it…" Sasha replied, grinning like a maniac. This was almost too good to be true!  
  
"HEY!"  
  
Ok, now this was weird.  
  
He sat up again, dislodging the one straddled across his hips, and stared at the man making his way across the sands. He was wearing a suit. A three- piece suit. The hell?  
  
James Bond? Wha…?  
  
PIERCE BROSMAN?!  
  
"Well *that's* put me off sex altogether. The hell…?! Private beach, so bugger off you sly little sod!" Sasha growled.  
  
"Bond, James Bond, and you are?" Pierce replied.  
  
"A very pissed off SAS agent. Are you having me on?"  
  
"Those are my ladies. Any Englishmen with honour knows not to tamper with another's woman."  
  
"There are five here, so don't be greedy." Sasha snapped.  
  
"Greedy?! You ungrateful swine!"  
  
"Ungrateful?! You're on *my* beach damn it!" Sasha stood up. "What the hell is going on?! You're an actor, Brosman, drop the -"  
  
"It's Bond."  
  
"Isn't this taking character acting a little too far?!"  
  
"This is my beach, sir, and I'll ask you to leave."  
  
"This beach is in my name right now. I'll let you leave provided I get to keep a couple of girls here."  
  
"No." So Bond drew his pistol…only now it looked like a stinger launcher.  
  
Sasha raised an eyebrow. "How did you stick that down your pants?"  
  
But before he could answer, there was a yell from the surf. There, with another guy and a woman stood Leonardo DiCaprio.  
  
"Does anyone know about the Beach? Is this it?"  
  
Bond and Sasha looked at each other.  
  
A moment later, when the noise died down, the surf was coloured red and the crater left by a stinger missile was being slowly filled with seawater, the world was a better place.  
  
Sasha sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Okay, okay, now that the funs over seriously…"  
  
He looked up, and Bond now had red hair, hazel eyes and the dopiest grin he'd ever seen.  
  
"Time ta wake up, tent boy!"  
  
  
  
~to be continued 


	3. Now Boarding...heeey that's a nice pair ...

Now Boarding…Heeeey That's a nice pair of pants…  
  
  
  
"@#^%ing hell. @#^%ing car. @#^%ing guns. @#^%ing president."  
  
Everyone quietly moved away from their combat leader as he continued to mutter obscenities to the world, and anyone in general. He was in a Bad mood. And when he was in a Bad mood, you added a capital B to it, and ran like hell. Or, in their case, leave him in the back seat of the car.  
  
"I hate this, I hate this, I hate this."  
  
"We know boss." Crimson Dingo, their communications expert intoned, as soothing as possible. He was kind of new, and Liquid was the only member of Foxhound that tolerated him and his habits. Probably because he was the same, but then who knew? Dingo liked his boss. He didn't confiscate his weed.  
  
"I was asleep. I like sleeping." Liquid Snake whined.  
  
"It's not my fault you have jet lag."  
  
"Shut up Ocelot. I need something to keep me awake. @#^%, I'm tired. Where's my CD player? @#^% that, find me some of that energy drink…"  
  
"Guarana?" Dingo caught his eye in the mirror.  
  
"No, makes me too frisky. I don't want to get caught in one of the toilets with my pants down and an only just legal stewardess performing some indecent act on my body. Remember Madrid?"  
  
"Wasn't your fault, mate. Coulda sworn she looked 24."  
  
"Arrrggghhhhshit. Let's just get this over with. " The car pulled into the airport, and at 10 at night, it was still extremely active. The reason Liquid was grumbling was because he'd only just flown into Paris from Tasmania where he'd been overseeing the training of a bunch of new recruits. The three had rented out a few vids (Dingo demanded Bond, which explained the reason he appeared in Liquid's dream) and Liquid had finished reading that damn Beach book on the plane (It was that or one of those damned freaky incest books by Virginia Andrews.) He licked his lips, and glared out of the window at the Parisian skyline. He was hungry too. "Ok, let's go."  
  
"I need coffee." Dingo said to no one in particular. "Since the plane leaves at 11, I say we hit the cafes, pick up some chicks, then follow the crew on."  
  
"We're not making sure Air Force 1 is okay?" Ocelot asked.  
  
"Nuh, don't think so. We're under cover. In other words, tent boy, keep it under control." Dingo gave his team leader a sly look.  
  
"You're just pissed because you've never had a good sex dream before." Liquid retorted sleepily. "The best you can come up with is you and that Ripley woman from Aliens having sex on the bridge of said ship, and then she turns into an Alien."  
  
Silence.  
  
Ocelot quietly moved away from the blushing Dingo.  
  
"Me? I had five women on a beach." Liquid replied, and entered the airport, making his way to the check out desk. "Wearing practically nothing. *I* was wearing practically nothing. Soon enough none of us would be wearing nothing. Then along comes that actor, and it's no sex for Sasha."  
  
"Peirce Brosman in a sex dream is not good, mate. Neither is Leo @#^%ing Dicaprio. At least I'm normal." Dingo dropped his duffle bag, starling the ticket seller.  
  
"If making love to a xenomorph is normal." Liquid sneered back. "I wish Naomi would stop tampering with me. I'm starting to think she's making mistakes on purpose. Am I supposed to be perpetually aroused?"  
  
"Shut up, Boss." Dingo looked around. ""There's an official over there. Wanna say hi?"  
  
Liquid groaned. "Yeah, sure. Provided there is no more mention of this, and we get an all expenses paid holiday. We're due for one, that's for sure."  
  
"Ahh, you getting old boss?" Ocelot asked.  
  
"No, it's the way the wildlife thinks my tent is a freakin' food hall."  
  
*  
  
The mission was fairly simple – the CIA had gotten a tip off that Air Force 1 was going to be taken over by terrorists and the president and just about everyone else would be held hostage until the demands were met. Obviously, Liquid reflected as he sat down, they should have checked everyone but that would have seemed to suspicious. All these talks with the president of France over this stupid nuclear bomb fiasco was getting people nervous. He snorted and tried to get comfortable, but there were too many officials around, and a gentle throb inside his head was a pointed reminder that 48 hours and only an hour of sleep were starting to launch their own attack on his poor defenceless brain.  
  
The hulking form of the president sat down opposite him accompanied by one of the sweetest little treasures in a loose shirt and tight pants. Liquid sat up and blinked sleepily.  
  
Crimson Dingo wandered over and gave a big cheesy grin to them both, and the president, THE president of the USA grinned back.  
  
"James Bartlett? Richard Head? "  
  
Whoops. Name tag Liquid. Better respond. "Call me Sasha." He gave Dingo the Look. Dingo's cheeks burned a little.  
  
The old man raised an eyebrow. "Unusual name."  
  
"Not really." Liquid yawned.  
  
"I wasn't talking to you."  
  
Liquid closed his eyes and shrank back in his mind, feeling a bit silly. 'We uh…we're both from the press. I dunno where the last member of our troop of fools is tho'." He continued, reverting to backstreets lingo.  
  
"Saw him talking to the blond chap when we came on, y'know? Has a taste for the back door, gettit?"  
  
The president laughed. "Or maybe it's just blonds in general. I hope he's of age, but never mind. The press, eh? We already have someone from the press here. Strange…"  
  
Crimson Dingo was playing toesies with the president's daughter. Liquid frowned.  
  
"M'm from the other one." Damn that woman looked fine. He elbowed Dingo's gut.  
  
She gave him a shy little smile and flicked some dust off her shirt. Damn, damn, damn, she was flirting with the both of them! He crossed his legs and smiled in what he hoped was a gentlemanly smile. "I assure you that everything will be fine, if you know what I mean." He added in his normal tone, with a wink.  
  
"Of course."  
  
It clicked. Other press? Ah, that group of youths…oh dear god, they couldn't possibly be…? He sighed.  
  
SOMEBODY had been paying too much attention to the movies.  
  
"Oh shit." He muttered.  
  
  
  
~ to be continued 


	4. Men Behaving Badly

Men behaving badly  
  
  
  
I do not believe drug use. I find taking Panadol's a guilt-ridden exercise. Why? I don't know. I prefer natural remedies. Just because Crimson Dingo has smuggled weed onto the plane doesn't mean you should be using it. And I point out here that it has serious effects on Liquid is because he's not used to it like Dingo is.  
  
  
  
It had been half an hour.  
  
Half an hour of agony.  
  
"She's making eyes at you again."  
  
"I know."  
  
"She wants it real bad."  
  
"Will you shut up?"  
  
"She's practically taking her panties off."  
  
"I am NOT a sexual deviant like you, damn it!"  
  
Silence.  
  
"I'm just saying I think she likes you."  
  
Liquid's temper snapped, and Dingo yelped (no pun intended there) with pain.  
  
"Ow!"  
  
"Just shut up and smoke a cone. And if you *do* light up, give me a few drags, will you?"  
  
Dingo gave Liquid a dark look then smiled evilly and pulled out something small from the recesses of his padded jacket, and lit up, taking a few puffs, then gave it to his boss. Liquid grinned back and took it from his hand.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Easy on that. You're not used to it."  
  
Liquid shrugged, stood up and started to patrol the plane. He could never understand the whole cigarette thing – people coating their lungs with tar, what was the point, apart from an early death? But this was something he supposed was okay. It *was* a relaxant wasn't it? He took another drag and started to smile again. Okay, maybe he was enjoying this job. It was kind of funny watching these people do their thing. I mean look at that guy, he'd be stuck in the chair by the end of it all.  
  
Hands jammed in pockets he meandered down the various rooms and corridors that made up America's most favourite plane.  
  
He found something.  
  
The cone dropped, and he only just caught on before it hit the ground. He stooped to pick it up, but realised he'd burned a little whole in the carpet.  
  
"Whoops." It struck him as being funny, and he chuckled softly, and slid the cone between his lips, taking another drag.  
  
In front of him, undisturbed, Ocelot was talking with a fresh-faced youth who was obviously enjoying it. The kid looked cute, even by his standards, but he wasn't here to flirt.  
  
Naomi would kill him.  
  
Shaking his head, he turned around and started the trek back to where Dingo had managed to get himself wasted. How he smuggled the bong on board still eluded Liquid to this very day (I can say that too ;p) but nonetheless, he was grinning happily at whatever was being shown to him in the privacy of his own mind.  
  
"Hey." Liquid blinked hard, wondering why the seats were starting to move. One grew eyes and stared at him. Liquid stared back. "I never said…never said you could smoke tha' much."  
  
Dingo started to giggle.  
  
"What is this…stuff…?"  
  
"Ganja!"  
  
"Bloo' hell." Liquid sat down on the eye chair. "Didn't think it would do this to me. Lessgo for walk, kay?"  
  
"Walkies! Take the dingo onna walkies!!"  
  
"Bloo' hell." Liquid looked up, and noticed a little speech bubble above his head with an angry squiggle in it. Okay, now he was REALLY tripping out. Could…could everyone see it?! That'd be embarrassing!!  
  
"First we find how Ivan-poos is doing…then…then…then we get laid?"  
  
"How we gonna get laid? No' with each other!!" Liquid stood up. "How much you smoke…?"  
  
"Dunno…"  
  
"Bloo' hell. Wanna go home…"  
  
The two wasted agents (They may be good agents but it never said they were professional) tried to look serious as they walked back down the plane, looking at people, and trying to put one foot in front of another to keep moving and not fall over.  
  
"Oss'lot?" He called. "Iiiiivan? Come out you smelly old man."  
  
"Hehe he's smelly!! Hehehe…"  
  
"Shu' up you. You' wasted." Liquid snapped and swayed.  
  
"So' you!" Dingo started to giggle again.  
  
"Not as much tho'. M'm gonna kick the door in."  
  
"Thass hostile."  
  
"No iss freakin' not." Liquid went to kick the door, but slipped and fell over. It didn't help the fact that he started to giggle too.  
  
"Open th' damn door stupid!" Dingo, in a mad fit of giggles, opened the door to reveal Liquid's worst nightmare.  
  
"S'like Madrid all over again." He laughed. "Look!! LOOOK!!"  
  
Ocelot turned around, gasped, and kicked the door shut. "You stupid pair of bastards!" He roared. "Whatever happened to being professional?! I'm reporting you to the head of department."  
  
Liquid meanwhile, was rolling around the floor in mad fits of laughter. "M', M' the head of department!! Hehehe M' professional! Only had one!"  
  
"S'mine!" Dingo stuck the boot in but Liquid rolled away, grabbed his boot, and pulled. There was a yell as he twisted and for the moment the two men struggled on the floor. It was at this time that one of the young (rather suspicious looking) men came upon them, stared and backed away muttering something about getting a room.  
  
Around this time the metabolism of Liquid dampened the last of the effects on his system, and his head started to become clearer. Only problem was the fact that the headache wanted to come back to. He pushed Dingo off him, and slowly managed to stand up.  
  
"Hands…off…president's daughter, kay?" He managed to say.  
  
"Why?" Dingo inquired. "You wanna first?"  
  
"Uh…"  
  
A pause, then a mad scramble.  
  
It was around this time that Liquid ran into a wall, and Dingo managed to catch a hold of enough brain cells to string together coherent sentences to make him sound normal.  
  
Oh yes, and the terrorists sprang out of their hiding places.  
  
~to be continued. 


	5. Like Sardines in a can...

Like Sardines in a can…  
  
[I know Campbell wasn't a part of Foxhound in the time this is set, but hey, this could be the reason why he retired.]  
  
  
  
Everything had gone to plan.  
  
Well, almost everything.  
  
Okay, so there was that creepy guy in the toilet, and that weird redhead that was now sitting in the corner giggling like a stupid maniac.  
  
"Eh Tom! Look what we found!" Barry, one of the other ones they'd picked up when they'd been finalising what was to be done had dragged the last weird person who wasn't on the List. A blond guy who now had bruising across the forehead thanks to running into a wall, and from the looks of things Barry had whacked him over the head a few times.  
  
"Dump him in the corner next to the giggling one. Ok Mr President…hey sweetie…"  
  
They called themselves the Loaded Guns, a group of rich teens with access to daddies' credit card, and thus just about anything to play with. Unable to get what they really wanted (a new permanent record) they'd watched Air Force One over and over again to get a feel for what they were going to do – ransom the president to get their records back (and a certain red Ferrari). The only one that had any sense was here to protest about the fact America was trying to buy nuclear missiles from France, but France said they didn't have any, so the president got angry. Situation normal.  
  
However, they were determined to get things right, which meant watching Harrison Ford's Air Force One over and over again until they were sure of all the hiding places, and all the neat stuff that was on the plane.  
  
Tom, the leader, looked over the hostages and smiled. "So where's the phone?"  
  
"You're not callin' the sex lines, Tom." Growled Terry.  
  
"I wasn't!"  
  
"Sure you weren't."  
  
~*~  
  
The phone rang and the receptionist picked it up. A few minutes later, it was shakily patched through to the Vice President, who for comedy's sake was in the shower.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"We are the Loaded Guns. We have Air Force One, the President and his hot little daughter, and (Barry what the hell are you doing?!) we have Season one of the Teletubbies. What kind of a threat is that?!"  
  
"Oh my God (since when does the president have a daughter?!)."  
  
"So if you want it all delivered safely, then I suggest you do as we say."  
  
"Name your demands."  
  
"New permanent records, A Ferrari for each of us…that's 22, if you must know…Randy wants world peace, dunno about that one, and we'd really like you to shoot N*Sync-"  
  
Distantly the vice president could hear someone say 'They're still around? Thought someone had killed 'em off long ago.' He stared into space.  
  
"…Yeah, they are still around. And we'd like to do it ourselves, so have them at the airport. Along with Brittany Spears, and any other pop chick under the age of 23. Even…oh you sicko, there is no way we're getting Nikki Webster down there, you freak! And the Back Street Boys."  
  
"Human Nature!" Someone yelled out.  
  
"Yeah, them too. And we have guns. Big guns. We're not afraid to use them. We'll start shooting hostages every half hour if you don't do what we say. And we have TV up here, and we have cable. So there."  
  
The Vice President picked his nose. "Is the president there?"  
  
"Oh yes. We didn't let him escape like they did last time-"  
  
"Dude, that was a movie." Called out someone  
  
"Oh, whatever!" The terrorist's leader growled. "And we're starting with the newspaper people, because the one in the corner is shitting me to tears. Or maybe the old guy with his pants round his ankles."  
  
The Vice president groaned inwardly. Send professionals it had been asked. Instead they had the three damn stooges…  
  
"Right. Yes, shoot them first. Please, for the love of God, shoot them first."  
  
"Oh. Okay. Speak to you soon then." The phone clicked out, and before the vice president could think, he was already dialling Foxhound HQ. A sleepy voice answered the phone, speaking in French.  
  
"Get me the commander!"  
  
"Oui, oui monsieur…Hold on a minute…maudit americans…"  
  
"I HEARD THAT!!"  
  
There was a beep, and the line connected.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Campbell?"  
  
"Yes, I think this is me."  
  
"You are aware, I asked specifically for the best to be sent on this mission."  
  
"Which one?"  
  
"The president one you idiot. I've got Jim Houseman biting my ass about this now and terrorists really have taken over the stupid plane, and your men are doing nothing."  
  
"What men?"  
  
"Can we cut the secrecy crap?"  
  
"Well, you're pretty blatant about your relationship with Houseman."  
  
"CAN WE LEAVE THAT OUT OF THIS FREAKIN' CONVERSATION?! Your men failed!"  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Sure? They're being held hostage! They're the first to die!" There was a pause. "That's not such a bad thing come to think about it…"  
  
"Ow. Look, they'll do what they can. Liquid is true to his name, he lies low like a snake and then strikes."  
  
"Well he's lying pretty damn low at the moment. He's unconscious."  
  
"Oh Gawd, Crimson Dingo was assigned wasn't he…"  
  
"Yes, you signed the papers."  
  
"Then he's higher than a treeful of monkeys. Dingo has views about drug use. Knowing Liquid, he was probably so uptight they forced him down and dosed him with something. Shit."  
  
There was a lull in the conversation.  
  
"If they can pull this off, I'm going to fire you."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because."  
  
"Because why?"  
  
"Because is the end of the conversation. If I say because, then that's final. Besides, I have a higher position than you! YOU WILL RESPECT MY AUTHORITAIRE!"  
  
Over the phone, Campbell sighed. "Brilliant. They're up there packed up like sardines in a can…"  
  
~ to be continued 


	6. The Natives are Restless

The Natives are Restless  
  
[I'm afraid that Solidus' civilian name eludes me. I know the first name is George (woo how prophetic, now I wonder if there really is a REAL Liquid Snake out there…hehe) but his second name is a mystery. That's why I refer to him as 'the president'. I could say Bush, but then, well, that's too weird. Waaaaaay too weird.  
  
On another note – I read the reviews on the latest Rollins masterpiece *cringe* and I am in no way a racist nor homophobe. Some of my best friends lean towards same sex relationships, so I have no problem with it. So please don't be upset with some of the language I use in this chapter. It is not meant to offend.]  
  
  
  
Imagine waking up to your head wanting to split in two.  
  
Now imagine having nothing to stop it with.  
  
Now…here's the hard part…now try to imagine everyone talking at once.  
  
Slowly pulling himself up, Liquid fought down 48 hours of lost sleep, no food and one drink of tea, and stared around the tiny room.  
  
There was a *lot* of noise.  
  
"If people don't shut the @#^% up, I am going to start breaking heads." He groaned, his British accent even more pronounced than usual. "What am I lying on? Dear God."  
  
"Sshhh boss, it'll all be over soon." Ocelot said soothingly, pulling his trousers up.  
  
"Oh…? Why's that?"  
  
"They're going to shoot *you* first."  
  
Liquid stared at him. "You…are DEAD…when we get out of this."  
  
"When? How about If you strange little man?!" Squealed one of the politicians. The bodyguards flanking the president looked menacing, but visibly shrank in ego when Liquid stared at them.  
  
"I am not going to die like this." Liquid growled.  
  
"Sorry boss, but it looks like ya are." Dingo was slowly coming down, and having a better resistance against the drug. He gave him a watery smile of encouragement.  
  
"Argh." Liquid curled up into the foetal position and closed his eyes. "Fine then." He groaned, his voice muffled by his clothing. "Tell 'em to shoot me when I sleep. I'd feel better that way, and they won't have to wake me up."  
  
"You mean you're not going to do ANYTHING?!" Roared the president. "My life is in danger, and you'll do NOTHING?!"  
  
"I've been in transit for 10 hours, had 23 hours on a freakin' plane, and on top of that, I had no sleep the last night I was in Tasmania fighting some sort of wallaby for my sleeping bag. And don't get me started on what happened when I woke up next to a freakin' goanna. I almost pissed myself."  
  
"Was it in the sleeping bag?" Dingo asked, curiously.  
  
"No thank God." Liquid curled up tighter. "So if you want your head to stay on your shoulders, then leave me alone!"  
  
"He's in one of his moods, sir." Ocelot said gently. "I'm afraid he acts like this when he doesn't get his sleep. He gets even more scratchy than usual, and tends to swear a lot. Can anyone find a portable CD player in here? It might be in one of the bags…it'll have a CD in there – looks blank, but it's that blasted Kosheen album of his. Find it and he'll be your friend for life…"  
  
~*~  
  
Terry scouted around the cabin for something interesting to play with. Most of the briefcases were pretty boring and just contained papers. Nothing really thought provoking. He really wanted to get back to playing Pokemon on his brother's Gameboy, but he knew that if he did that, Tom would have a fit.  
  
But what was this?  
  
It looked like a couple of knapsacks and camera cases. Looked like one of them liked that stupid anime crap. Okay, pokemon was anime, but shit, some of those girls were sexy. Especially the purple haired chick. Or was a guy?  
  
"Revolutionary Girl Utena? What the @#^%?" Okay…that was weird…a change of clothing…a few notebooks…a novel…The Beach? Wasn't that that movie with whats-his-name Leo someone or other? Geez, this person was mixed up.  
  
But heeeeey, there was a CD player…wonder what was on it?  
  
He slid the ear phones on, and after a moment of fiddling, he turned it on. Waited. Swore loudly and profoundly, threw the player to the floor and started to jump on it. When if stopped working, he took out the CD and threw it against a wall. It still didn't break, so he snapped it in two.  
  
"What's the matter, Terry?" gasped one of the others in surprise.  
  
"Its drum and bass, damn it! This guy is a raving poofter, let's find him and kill him-"  
  
There was a loud thumping at the locked door of the room the hostages were being held in. Muffled, someone could be heard screaming: "BASTARDS!! It was DEFENCELESS!! It was INNOCENT!!"  
  
"The natives are getting restless. I'll just wave my gun around and they'll quieten down."  
  
"Want any back up?"  
  
"Naw, it'll be fine."  
  
This was the first mistake. Never, ever break a CD. It causes bad luck.  
  
Terry wandered down the hallway and paused in front of the door, and brandished his gun. But as he opened it, what he wasn't expecting was a steward thrown by an angry Englishman to land on his lap. He landed hard and his head hit the side of the plane, spinning him into unconsciousness.  
  
"Oi! I hadn't finished with him!" Ocelot snarled, then shut up, seeing Liquid's face.  
  
Liquid, on the other hand, breathed in, then out, installing a sense of calm about himself. Stress killed.  
  
So did he.  
  
"I…am VERY…angry." Liquid said softly. "And when I'm angry, I tend to do terrible things."  
  
"To us?" Someone asked behind him.  
  
"If you piss me off, yes, so shut up or else."  
  
"Is he dead?"  
  
"No, just sleeping. Ocelot, stop that right now." Liquid looked around for a weapon, but realised that it was pretty pointless in firing off guns in a plane. Could be dangerous.  
  
Well. A Snake is always prepared.  
  
Turning away, he unloosened his belt, and slid out the combat knife he'd hid beneath the layers of combat pant that kept him warm and snug.  
  
"Do you MIND?!"  
  
"Them or me." Liquid examined the knife, and sighed. "I should oil it more." He then realised why everyone was staring at him. He turned around. "Knife, people. Knife. Geez, you think I'm as bad as him over there?"  
  
Everyone turned, and Ocelot blushed, and dropped the steward. "I was just checking to make sure if he was going to be okay, really!"  
  
"And you call ME bad." Liquid stepped over the slumped body. "I'll save you all provided you give me what I want."  
  
"And what's that?" The president snarled.  
  
"A holiday."  
  
The daughter then came forward and poked the terrorist. "He's unconscious!"  
  
Liquid stared. "Yes. He is. Say again?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"You…you're a…" Liquid blinked again.  
  
"Sweet Jesus!" Dingo ran past the group and to the bathroom.  
  
Liquid gave the 'daughter' one last look then turned to face the corridor. "You're a sick bastard Dingo!" He turned back to the crouched figure, and sighed. "What'd he do?"  
  
"I thought he was being friendly!"  
  
Liquid's eyes widened. "I'm going to have a chat to him when this is all over. Okay, any one with combat experience, follow me…oh, you do have you?"  
  
"Jack is very good." The president said defensively. He was creepy.  
  
"Jack, neh? Right-o." With a sigh he strode off in what he hoped was going to get out of this alive. How old was the kid? Just into her…his…teens? Arghhh…"It never rains but it pours…"  
  
  
  
~to be continued 


	7. Chocolate in my Pocket

Chocolate in my Pocket  
  
  
  
"Are we there yet?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Are we there yet?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Are we there-oh sorry." Dingo looked around then started to jiggle up and down. He was ignored by the rest of the little rescue party. "Gotta pee."  
  
"I thought you were doing that when you ran to the toilet"  
  
"I was being sick."  
  
"You should have gone then." Liquid continued, with the patience of a loving parent.  
  
"But I didn't need to!"  
  
"Well, you'll have to hold it in." Liquid eased himself around a corner, and looked around. These kids were amateurs, that was for sure, which was nice, because it meant you could have fun and mess with their heads. There was something intensely satisfying about running mental rings around someone.  
  
One of them crossed his path and Liquid hit him over the head with the butt of the knife. He then strode onwards down the corridor, and there was a yell, and a succession of thumps. Two men with bloodied faces suddenly appeared in the hallway.  
  
"Mr Ocelot?" asked the president's daugh – um, son Jack.  
  
"Yeah, kid?"  
  
"Why is he such a meanie?"  
  
"Well, Jack, everyone has got these little problems. That man over there thinks the world's out to kick him in the teeth – most of the time he's right. He's one beer short of normality, constantly depressed, and generally flies off the hinge at anyone who he thinks is trying to do him in."  
  
"Like tax collectors?"  
  
"Especially them. And religious people. He hates it when they come door knocking, thinks they're trying to send him to hell."  
  
"Where's that?"  
  
"Mrs Danielle Peterson, Apartment 23b Lockley street Lond - oh, sorry. Ahem. I don't know. He also hates psychiatrists."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Well, hypnotherapy was tried on him to stop him from being such a bundle of nerves…well, we sort of took advantage of it all, and he spent most of the week as various animals until one of the girls broke a glass and the ringing noise woke him up."  
  
"What did he do?"  
  
"Well, it involved a tank, C4, some tripwires, the obstacle course that was shut down for safety reasons, and a gerbil. Oh yes, and blindfolds, along with some duct tape." Ocelot smiled fondly at the memory.  
  
"Oh dear…"  
  
"Yeah, that gerbil is probably out in orbit. And we all bare the scars."  
  
"We're here." Liquid growled as he came back. "I've stuffed about five of them in a room, and they all look like they're about to pee themselves. I want something to drink, Jack? Where is the food stashed, and is it edible?"  
  
"Umm…"  
  
"Never mind. I just remembered I have a chocolate bar in my back pocket." He tried to reach it, but ended up chasing his metaphorical tail. He finally pulled it out after some strange motions (These weren't the same tight *waaaai* pants in MGS. These are more like baggy cargo pants)  
  
"You're not going to eat that, are you?" Dingo gasped  
  
Liquid looked up innocently, his eyes wide, bar midway to mouth. "Yes?" He opened it up and took a bite with a satisfied smile on his face.  
  
"You…are…*disgusting* boss." Ocelot groaned.  
  
"Tastes good. Don't want a bite? Good, all the more for me." It was then that a couple of them came down the stairs, obviously to kill a hostage as was pronounced. Liquid shoved the bar back into his pocket again, and beckoned for the others to hide.  
  
"I'll tell you straight Arnold, this is pathetic." Growled one of them as he stepped out. "Taking votes on who dies first!  
  
"The giggling one for sure."  
  
"My point exact – hey! How'd you get out?"  
  
Liquid shrugged. "I was minding my own business, and the next thing I know, the door's open. So I came out for a cup of tea."  
  
"I hate you English wankers."  
  
"Wankers? Look who's talking, Mr Happy-hands. Don't tell me you haven't been doing naughty things."  
  
"How did you know…?!"  
  
"Ow. Too much information." Liquid spun and kicked, sending one reeling, and then struck out, using the momentum to crash into the other one. Soft college boys, the big ones were probably football players, which meant that there wasn't much upstairs. Those guys were on the lower levels, trying to make sure the president wouldn't stage an amazing rescue attempt. Liquid made a mental note to flood Harrison Ford's e-mail with junk mail, and then hunt him down and hurt him.  
  
Breathing out as quietly as he dared, he began to climb the stairs…  
  
~*~  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"We're here." The Vice President looked at the phone worriedly.  
  
"Well, we've patched you down to the intercom in the room we've got the hostages in. They can hear us. I've sent two men to kill one of the people there. It has been decided that the red headed reporter is to die first. He has no dress sense, and he smells."  
  
"Oh no, poor Crimson Dingo…" Whispered Campbell, still dressed in his pyjamas.  
  
Silence.  
  
"What the hell?" There was a thump a yell, and the sound of someone crying. Then came a voice.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Who is this? Another terrorist?" he glanced at the pale faced Campbell.  
  
"That's no terrorist…that's Liquid Snake!"  
  
There was a sad sigh, and Liquid spoke again. "Two things…one…we're seriously outnumbered…the other…"  
  
"Yes?" gasped the vice president in hope.  
  
"Is there any way to get a pizza up here? I'd like a meat lovers, Ocelot wants anchovies on his vegetarian, and Dingo could really do with a salami pizza with the herb and cheese crust. Oh yes and some aspirin. We have a serious case of the munchies here."  
  
The vice president covered his face with his hands, in obvious despair.  
  
Campbell looked at his feet, feeling silly. "I know he's notorious for carrying out his missions successfully, but I never said he was a professional."  
  
~ to be continued. 


	8. What's this Button do...?

What's this button do?  
  
  
  
[excess of rude pee jokes here, sorry, and no, Crimson Dingo is in no way related to Metal Wolf. Unless it's a father/son thing. Now THAT is scary.]  
  
  
  
"Thought you were so damn smart, didn't you?!" Screamed Tom. "Thought you knew what you were doing, didn't you?!"  
  
"Umm…"  
  
"What?!"  
  
"We thought we were ordering takeout OW! Damn it, boss!" The red head cringed. "We won't go down with a fight. And I have to take a pee."  
  
"Shut up!" Tom went to punch the blond guy but he ducked and caught his arm.  
  
"Don't do that." He said calmly.  
  
"Ow! Let me go! Robbie! Shove your gun at him!"  
  
"I don't wanna shoot him!"  
  
"Freakin' hell! Just shoot him!"  
  
"The safety's on."  
  
"No it isn't!" Robbie spat.  
  
"Yes it is. I've been a war zone, my boy, and I know what a gun with it's safety on looks like. A fellow reporter got killed because of that."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Oh yes."  
  
"Why is that guy beside you rolling his eyes?" He said suspiciously.  
  
"He's…uh, he's heard that story heaps of times. I tend to brag about my survival skills."  
  
"Aww, too bad they're not going to work here." Robbie flicked the catch and aimed at the blond's head, while he simply smiled dreamily at him. Pulled the trigger.  
  
Liquid moved hoping like hell that when he performed his little trick he wouldn't crack his head open or fall, as he wasn't at his best. He spun, caught the gun, wrenched it out of the kid's hands, and reloaded using the cartridge he'd dropped and casually balanced on his foot. A moment later, he clicked the safety off. "I can' t believe how easy that was." He said amusedly.  
  
He then causally flung up a hand, catching the fist thrown at him by one of the more excitable terrorists, and pulling the young man close to connect with his head.  
  
"…Ow."  
  
"You ok, Boss?" Dingo undid his pants, then started writing his name in yellow on the unconscious guy's Armani shirt. When you have to go, you have to go, right?  
  
"Will be. When I get my head together." Liquid shook his head to try and regain coherent thought. "Right. Are the pilots still alive?"  
  
"Yer." Said the gangly one in the corner. He had long hair, and his 'I'm a scary terrorist' outfit was a bit stupid considering he had one of those yellow smiley faces on the front with a cheesy grin and a cone sticking out of it. "M' Randy."  
  
"…Ah, that's Ocelot's department, I'm straight."  
  
There was a sudden silence.  
  
"…You are?"  
  
Liquid mentally debated if killing Dingo would be classed as crime or mercy. He decided that someone out there *had* to love the dirty bastard, so oh well…  
  
"Yes. I thought the conversation we had earlier explained all that."  
  
"Nuh, I thought you were talking about Brosman and you in a beach."  
  
"I think I'm going to sick." Liquid muttered.  
  
"No, that would be concussion."  
  
Letting it slide, Liquid continued his questioning. "Are the pilots are alive?"  
  
"Uh-huh, stuck 'em in the hold…"  
  
"Ah, so you have someone flying the plane?"  
  
"Uh…"  
  
The three agents glanced at each other, dashed for the door, fell back, then did it again. Finally Dingo ran through, and was joined by the others.  
  
Ocelot stared at the viewing windows, and said, in a girlish tone, his pants wet with fear: "No one's flying the goddamn plane…"  
  
"Nobody panic!" Liquid snapped, sitting at the controls.  
  
"No one is panicking, but someone's peeing…"  
  
"DINGO!"  
  
"Wasn't me!"  
  
"Can EVERYONE please maintain dignity and control of their bladders)?!" Their leader snapped, looking like he was about to explode with anger. Right now, little alarm bells were going off, but naturally, no one was paying attention.  
  
"What, like the time you drank so much you ran out into traffic with your pants down?!" There was a thunk, and Dingo retreated, nursing a bloodied lip.  
  
"Think happy thoughts. I am calm. I am at one with my surroundings…I am…extremely…hungry."  
  
"I don't remember THAT being part of the self help book." Ocelot replied, looking at the buttons. "Which one makes the plane go up? This one?"  
  
"DON'T TOUCH THAT!!" Liquid looked frantically over the control panel, but nothing changed.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"I don't know, but the red light is on." Dingo muttered. "I thought you knew how to fly, Boss."  
  
"I do, but Air Force One is not in the manual. Can I hear screaming in the distance?"  
  
"Sounded like 'we're all gonna die' or something."  
  
~*~  
  
The president…yes, Solidus, stared at the intercom amidst the chaos that had occurred when the last of the conversation came down to the hostages.  
  
Liquid Snake – his younger brother – couldn't fly the plane.  
  
Jack was up there somewhere.  
  
They were all going to die.  
  
"Bloody hell. Someone get me a gun, I want those men dead."  
  
"Aren't they trying to save us sir?"  
  
"…No. It's all an elaborate scheme…to…umm…"  
  
"Take over the plane and abduct you?"  
  
"Yes." Solidus took off his neatly pressed jacket, and took the nearest gun. "It's time I taught these children a little lesson."  
  
Oh, he was going to enjoy this.  
  
~ to be continued 


	9. The Tables Turn...

The Tables Turn…  
  
  
  
"All right you bastards!"  
  
Silence.  
  
Solidus felt a bit stupid, and glanced back at his bodyguards who shrugged. They walked down the length of the plane and realised that the remaining terrorists were looking up the ladder. And at what, he didn't dare speculate – it could be anything.  
  
"And then…and then the man hit him inna balls!"  
  
Jack? Was he ok? He sounded okay, but that LANGUAGE!!  
  
"Hey!" He called out. He was ignored. "OI! LOOK AT ME! I AM THE PRES – I – DENT!!"  
  
"Uhh, sir? It's not working."  
  
"I can see that, you numbskull."  
  
Solidus sighed, and buried his head in his hands.  
  
Some people. Bloody hell.  
  
"Daddy!" the little boy crowed, and ran down the stairs and into his arms. Jack burrowed into Solidus' body and hugged him fiercely.  
  
"Okay boys." Solidus remarked calmly. "It's time to put down your weapons. You're seriously outnumbered."  
  
"…Um, we'll only give up if you stop the mad man driving the damned plane." As the words left the man's mouth, the plane dipped and started to nosedive. There were screams of fear, but the plane righted itself.  
  
"I…I thought it was turbulence!"  
  
"No way man, it's the weird guy on pot!"  
  
"Yeah! Save us Mr President!"  
  
"We love you!"  
  
"Yeah!"  
  
Shaking off the glomping terrorists, Solidus struck a heroic pose. "Lock 'em in the hold. I have a Snake to control."  
  
*  
  
"It seems that your men have taken over the plane." The vice president said patiently.  
  
"Yes…"  
  
"They are under the influence of banned substances."  
  
"…Yes…" Could Campbell sink any lower into his seat?  
  
"…AND…you have a manic depressive up there…Driving the plane."  
  
"Well…according to Mantis, he hasn't been taking his medication."  
  
"What?! Why the hell not?!"  
  
"Mantis?" Campbell called out. The creepy agent glided forward and glared at the surrounding suits with a look of disgust. Everyone edged away from him.  
  
"On the medication he had a tendency to see things that weren't there, and would often run screaming if anyone mentioned Ocelot and pornography in the same sentence." Mantis paused. "But then I think everyone does that. Um, he was having terrible nightmares and would often dance through the facility half naked, and we would find him asleep in the laundry room."  
  
Silence.  
  
"Was I supposed to tell them that, Colonel?" Mantis asked worriedly.  
  
"…Uhh…"  
  
"We have a mad man driving Air Force One. And I have to tell the public. To begin with, there will be a nationwide panic, and then people won't believe me. I can't believe he's not been COMITTED let alone allowed a GUN. You people…"  
  
"We're short on staff…you don't get good mercenaries like you used to." Campbell said sadly. "But he makes wonderful hot chocolate."  
  
"Get out…GET OUT!!"  
  
*  
  
"What about that button?"  
  
"That one looks a lot like the one a Boeing 747 uses to dump its waste."  
  
"Cool! Let's do it!"  
  
"No. Stop fooling around." Liquid's head was astonishingly clear, even though his head was just about ready to come apart, and very soon he'd black out. "I can do this. I know I can. See? This stick moves the damn thing, and I can make it go UP" The plane jerked, and there was the comical lead up scream of the rest of the passengers. "Or go DOWN." There was another roll, and the screams decreased in tone. "I think I have it now. According to the radar, London 's Heathrow is the only place we can really land. It looks like some idiot decided to dump half the fuel."  
  
"Unless it was only half filled in the first place."  
  
"You have a point, Dingo. Okay, I'm going to turn around, radio Heathrow and get us out of here."  
  
"Do we HAVE to land there?" Whined Ocelot.  
  
"No. Not really. But I miss home, and I really want to get to Forbidden Planet."  
  
"What the hell is that? Ocelot moaned. "Not a stupid theme restaurant is it?"  
  
"I have more pride then that. It's one of the biggest comic shops in London. I can finally pick-up my art books!"  
  
"Oh God, I'm trapped up here with a deranged shojo-loving bastard!"  
  
"There's a lot you can learn from those books."  
  
"Are we flying the plane or discussing cartoons? You just ran over a bird!"  
  
"It was in the way." Liquid growled. "Okay, here we go-"  
  
"HEY! YOU!"  
  
"…?" Liquid turned around. "Where'd you come from?!"  
  
The president smiled evilly at the three men crowded in the cockpit of the plane. "So. We see the real terrorists. Even though you were sent to protect me from *them* it turns out you're the masterminds behind the operation."  
  
"If people keep accusing me of terrorism, I might just do it for real!! Peer pressure, understand?! EVERYONE BLAMES ME FOR EVERYTHING!"  
  
"Oh gawd, you got him fired up, sir!" Dingo moaned, and tried to hold down the furious Liquid.  
  
"Nyaaaahhh!! Lemme go! I wanna hit 'im! I wanna hit 'im!"  
  
"Calm down! Remember the self-help books? Think calming thoughts…uhh, secluded beaches…umm, blue water…hot naked chicks…no, wait, that's my fantasy-"  
  
"YES! We HAVE taken over the plane! And if you don't meet our demands, you're going to be very sorry!"  
  
"What?" Solidus gasped.  
  
Liquid threw Dingo off him and pulled something out of one of the many pockets of his trousers. It was small, lethal looking, and it beeped. "I have a bomb! I'll land the plane IF you do what I say!" Liquid yelled. "You hear me, you uptight wankers?! I'm close to the edge! I WILL set it off!!"  
  
Everyone backed away  
  
"He never told me about this!" gasped Ocelot.  
  
"That's not a detonator – that's his mobile." Dingo whispered back. "They've pushed him over the edge…I *told* Campbell to leave off…"  
  
Through the intercom came the frightened voice of the vice president. "Yes, we hear you…"  
  
"I want…"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Want…"  
  
"YES?"  
  
Liquid's eyes were glazed with exhaustion. "Four weeks of peace and quiet…my own private beach…make it Queensland…I haven't been there in years…uh…spending money…access to vehicles…and…"  
  
"What? WHAT YOU MANIAC?!" Screamed Solidus, veins popping up all over his skin.  
  
"A nice soft bed?"  
  
"Huh?" Solidus stared at him, and began edging away. "Yeah, sure, you little freak…" This was Liquid Snake? Not a chance in hell…  
  
"Oh. Good." Liquid relaxed, put his mobile phone back in his pocket, and sat back at the chair, looking at the controls. "Lets go home." He said dreamily, and fighting the overwhelming desire to sleep, he placed his hands on the controls. Time to go.  
  
*  
  
The plane glided in and rolled to a gentle stop in front of army officials, police, and of course, awed bystanders. The terrorists were all rounded up and carted away, (Strangely enough, no bomb could be found…perhaps the terrorists had forgotten to pack it?) the president congratulated for his bravery.  
  
"It's not all me, you know. My son had a big part to play, didn't you Jack?"  
  
"Yeah!" Leaving the press a bit worried because Jack looked like a girl. Especially with his hair tied back in pink ribbons.  
  
No one noticed the three men making a quiet getaway. Okay, only two, they were carrying the third who was fast asleep. Once again, Foxhound had succeeded in averting a crisis…  
  
But we all know it doesn't end there…  
  
~sort of the end. 


	10. Back Where We Started.

Back Where We Started (AKA the epilogue)  
  
  
  
It was *hot*  
  
Not that it mattered mind you. Dozing beneath a sunshade, Liquid Snake, AKA James Sasha Bartlett, sighed, and turned over, semi–curled in the foetal position.  
  
The entire crew was on holiday. Distantly he could hear Crimson Dingo challenging half the guys in Sector 6 to a volleyball competition. The voices of Sniper Wolf and Vulcan Raven joined his in the insults before the ball came into play.  
  
So warm…He smiled to himself and slipped deeper into the comforting embrace of sleep.  
  
Voices of the others – Viper was bitching about the fact a pelican had stolen his sandwich…and then the yell of him being chased by it…  
  
~Ahh…this is fun~ Liquid thought. Relaxation. Recuperation.  
  
Distantly there was a roar, and a massive boat glided close into shore. Men jumped off the boat and moored it, then brought out a portable pier to stand on, with red carpet.  
  
Red carpet. Wow.  
  
He sat up and stared.  
  
No.  
  
Ohhh no.  
  
Lo and behold, women came off the boat, giggling and fixing up their skimpy bikinis. And behind them?  
  
"Oh @#^%." Liquid groaned and let himself fall back onto the towel. Just his bloody luck.  
  
"Excuse me." Growled a haughty voice. "We'd like you and your hippy commune to leave this area and find somewhere else to hold your free love festival."  
  
"What?"  
  
Liquid sat up, and strolled over to the security guy, who was, for the sake of things, a lot shorter than he was. Raised an eyebrow. "Look short stuff, if you haven't already checked with the government, this beach and those beach houses over there belong to us. Okay?"  
  
"Not a chance in hell, you…you…"  
  
"Ugh." His nightmare had come true. Liquid massaged his temples. That headache was coming back…  
  
A moment later Brosman himself came up, demanding to know what was going on.  
  
"A thousand dollars each for you. Think how much alcohol you-"  
  
There were numerous clicks and metallic sounds. How Sniper Wolf had hidden that PSG-1 in that bikini is still a mystery. Everyone had pulled a gun of some sorts and looked menacing…even Ocelot wearing his 'L337 Nak3d Sk|llz' boxer shorts (he was just showing off.).  
  
"Oh…uh…"  
  
"We're not hippies, Mr Brosman. We believe in violence. All necessary of course, you understand. Now I suggest you leave before my friend over there shoves a stinger up your million dollar arse, hmm?"  
  
There was a blur of sand, skin and the bay was clear once more.  
  
Liquid sighed, listened to everyone put the weapons away (he didn't turn around to see where they were hidden, deciding that there are some things best left unknown) and allowed himself back to the shade to have a well deserved snooze, giving everyone a little thank you smile.  
  
Okay, maybe things would turn out better this time.  
  
He promptly went to sleep…  
  
  
  
~ okay, that's really the end now. :)  
  
  
  
  
  
[I apologise for this weirdness you have just read. I enjoyed writing it, and lo and behold…it's the first multi-chapter fic I have ever finished! Yay me!  
  
To explain some things – why did Liquid act so weird? All will be known in some time *kicks Symbrio angrily* RIGHT?! CHAPTERS PLEASE!! And then you'll get it. This was just silliness on my part. :) Hope you liked it :) maybe some more angsty Liquid one shots soon. Yay me! *ahem*  
  
All characters except the dopey terrorists and Crimson Dingo belong to Konami, but if they're really finished with Liquid Snake, he's very welcome at my place. Crimson Dingo is a free character for anyone to use or make fun of in any fiction. It is possible he's related to Metal Wolf, but that's for Kidhighwind118 to decide :)  
  
I never saw the end of Air Force 1 so there ;p  
  
~ plink/Atkinson 


End file.
